Blood Brothers
by Belphegor
Summary: They were not going to die, Captain Cold decided, no matter how likely it seemed; except possibly from embarrassment when the others found out Heatwave and he had gotten locked in an out-of-work walk-in freezer. DCAU Rogues, post Destroyer, no slash.


Author's notes: I've been stuck – badly stuck – on Piper's chapter of _Everybody Comes To Harry's_ for a long while, so I decided to post this story, which I wrote almost a year ago :o) It stemmed from an idea that was running around in my head making silly (and possibly rude) gestures for about ten minutes … Like many plot bunnies do, I'm sure.

The idea was, let's take these two characters (as in polar opposites, as hot and cold tend to be) and stick 'em in an air-tight room. What do they talk/don't talk about? What happens when they run out of air? Who get to be the Big Damn Heroes(TM)?

I brought the challenge to a fellow Rogues writer, Ivybramble, who chose the _Flash_ comics universe (_ht tp: / / community. livejournal. com/ flash_rogues/ 168418. ht ml_ without the spaces). I went for the DCAU, as I usually do. I hope you like :o)

As always, thanks a lot to my beta reader ChaosandMayhem. You're right, I _gotta_ draw the Trickstermobile some time ;o)

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters – DC and/or Warner do, it's all a bit fuzzy to me. But I own my version of the Trickstermobile, darnit :P_

Title: Blood Brothers  
Rating: G  
Characters: Captain Cold, Heatwave, Pied Piper, Trickster  
Pairing: none  
'Verse: DCAU, JLU, set after Destroyer

* * *

**Blood Brothers**

"I can't believe it."

"Yeah, well, _I_ can."

"I _can't_ believe it."

"I got it the first three times, Len."

Len Snart shook his head as he crossed his arms and looked at the door that Mick was trying to get to open. He'd been at it for some time now. Probably had even before Len had come 'round.

"Hang on," he said, taking his glasses off and striding over to the door, "there's gotta be some kind of system that opens that thing from the inside. I mean, it's a freezer – used to be, anyway – people worked in there, it can't be too hard to open."

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to remind Mick Rory, of all people, that they were locked in what was technically a walk-in meat freezer. But Len wasted no time berating himself. He could do that when they were out of there.

Preferably after kicking the living daylights out of the damn punks who had knocked them out and locked them in there.

On the other hand, _perhaps_ jumping into a massive bar brawl just because some little wannabe toughie had knocked their plates off the table – thus getting everyone else to come to a sudden accord and round upon the two of them instead – was another idea to file under the admittedly long 'not so good ideas' list.

To be fair, though, Len hadn't really counted on him and Mick actually _losing_. Maybe they were getting old after all.

Which was why they were now deprived of their respective weapons and locked in what amounted to a fourteen-foot-square air-tight fridge. Granted, the fridge in question hadn't been in actual use for a while, which meant that temperature was more likely to get hotter than colder as minutes ticked off, but it was infuriating.

… Especially since the emergency unlocking seemed to be as out of order as the fridge itself. At least the lone light bulb on the ceiling appeared to be working.

_Damn._

"Mick?" he said calmly. "You're not gonna like this."

"Too late."

Turning his head, Len saw that Mick was still working the door, pulling and twisting the doorknob and inspecting the hinges for any possible weak point.

"Of course the damn door doesn't work. That's how it always goes, isn't it? Even when it _should_ work. Dammit."

The last word had a furious, dejected undertone to it, but Mick Rory was nothing if not stubborn – like the rest of them. Len watched him stand back as much as he could, then run to the door and slam his hefty frame against it. It didn't so much as budge.

Len pulled off his gloves and opened his parka, sat against the wall and patiently waited for his fellow Rogue to stop howling and swearing. When he finally did – and doggedly went back to searching for a potential weakness in the door – he was grim-faced and silent, and, Len noted with some surprise, almost imperceptibly shaking.

"_Dammit_," he repeated between clenched teeth. "I survived Grodd – I survived Luthor – I survived being marooned in _space_ – I survived a friggin' alien attempt to annihilate Earth … No way I'm kicking it in a damn _fridge_."

"Don't be stupid," Len snapped, refusing to listen to the slowly-growing concern – at least for the moment. "We're not gonna die in here. The others will find us quick enough."

"Quick enough. Yeah. Hope so, anyway." Mick didn't look at him directly, still trembling slightly – as though the temperature in the room was really forty instead of eighty or so. This worried Len more than he cared to admit. They were right in the dog days of summer, when the nights failed to abate the stifling heat, and they were locked in a room with temperatures that wouldn't have felt out of place in a sauna.

Mick thrived on heat and couldn't stand cold (Len had always refused to make that joke, but privately he still found it particularly ironic). He hadn't called himself 'Heatwave' for years just because he happened to like playing with fire.

It was even worse when it finally sank in that he would not get that door to open. He half-sank to the floor next to Len, still avoiding his eyes.

Then again, the two of them hadn't exactly shared meaningful looks or conversations since Mick had returned to Central City after his almost year-long stint with Grodd, Luthor and their little 'Legion of Doom'. With bad news.

For the first time in a dozen years or so, the Rogues had lost one of their own.

The fact that Mick hadn't been able to do anything to prevent Killer Frost from murdering Weather Wizard along with twenty or so of their 'teammates' (though the big explosion had later finished the job) hadn't gone down very well with Len.

Mick and Mark trying their hand at something different – sure, why not. It had stung a bit at the time, but it was fair.

But the thing about being a Rogue … the main thing, really, the one that was more important than robbing banks and sticking it to the Flash … It was about looking out for each other. Even far from home – _especially_ far from home, actually – once a Rogue, always a Rogue.

Len knew Mick blamed himself to a degree for Mark's death. _He_ blamed Mick for letting him die, Mark for blindly choosing the wrong side, both for not sticking together, and himself for not knocking some sense into them before they left Central for some God-forsaken place in a swamp because they believed that a giant gorilla would protect them better than guys – friends – who had worked with them for years.

… Yeah. It still stung.

Mick's shivers increased. Len threw him a disbelieving look. Everything in his body language – down to his shaking, halting breathing – suggested that, as far as he was concerned, they might have been locked in a cellar in Antarctica.

"What's wrong with you? We must have picked up a couple degrees in the last minutes and you look frozen to the bone." Maybe bringing up a common memory and changing subjects could distract him. One particular spectacularly failed heist sprang to Len's mind. "Like that time with the train, remember? With Mardon and Piper."

"Y–yeah, I remember. There was some glitch with the wand and it got stuck on fog and snow. I didn't know it was possible to freeze to death in the middle of June."

"With Mark, it was."

"Yeah."

Mick's shivering seemed to let up somewhat, but the expression on his face shifted to the closed, almost stony one he seemed to wear a lot these days – particularly when anything Mark Mardon-related entered the conversation – that told someone who knew him well that he felt as though his guts were being ripped out inch by inch. Len didn't comment. They had already had this conversation, and after a short punch-up, it had been settled.

Things hadn't reverted to what they were, however. Mardon's ghost seemed to hang over Mick's shoulder as Mark's dead brother had once done with him.

Even weeks after it happened, Len still wasn't certain he wanted it to fade away.

Mick's voice dropped, taking on the quiet, low-pitched tone he usually reserved for midnight musings in front of a whiskey. "I keep thinking, 'Hey, why don't we ask Mark for a cloud, or a nice little breeze?' I keep having to stop myself from turning and asking him. It's like … It's like he's not … really gone, you know?"

_This_ conversation, however, was new. Len eased up his parka around his shoulders and glanced sideways at Mick.

"I know."

"It just … Things got so _crazy_, out there. Space – mutiny – Killer Frost, she … she was on _their_ side, and she just … And then that – that _guy_, I don't know what he was supposed to be, but he was the scariest thing I'd ever seen." His voice was shaking, but this time Len knew it wasn't just because he was cold. With a temperature of over eighty five. Go figure.

"You know that Trickster likes stuff blowing up, fireworks, kinda thing? 'Everything explodes'? Well, everything did explode. I thought I was dead. If Sinestro hadn't done that thing he does with his ring, we all would have been." He huddled up, still staring into space. "So I guess Mark not being there just … It didn't register till later. Came crashing down when it did, in the middle of the fight – Parademons everywhere, and I expected him to watch my back – nearly got myself killed. I don't really know what happened after that, except that someone saved my butt."

"Do you know who did?"

"Oh, yeah. Ice, of all people. You know, girl's got powers like Killer Frost but without the psychotic tendencies." He gave the ghost of a smile. "Thought it was you at first."

Len made a point of remaining absolutely deadpan, no matter how badly he wanted to throw Mick the dirtiest glare he could think of. "That's … flattering."

"Hey, I was really out of it. Saw some white and blue, felt the ice – came to the natural conclusion." He paused. "It's good to be back, Len."

Silence followed, filled with common memories and words that had never needed saying. Maybe it was because he had known Mick for so long – longer than anyone else in the Rogues – or maybe it was because the oxygen in the air was gradually decreasing and it was messing with his head, but Len found, to his surprise, that the words came out quite easily.

"It's good to have you back."

And it was. Even Mark's death seemed to loom a little less conspicuously over them.

Even if their own survival was beginning to look a little problematic. Mick's shaking was slowly dying down, but Len didn't like the sound of the too fast, hitching breathing. At all.

When he looked at him more closely, he abruptly switched from 'mildly concerned' to 'seriously alarmed'.

"Shit. Mick, your lips are blue."

"Wha'?" The single syllable sounded a little drowsy and tired – too much for Len's liking.

"Your lips are – dammit, Mick! You're not cold, you just _think_ you are!" '_Don't get scared, get angry_' was as good a philosophy as any other, and Len had long ago made a habit of clinging to it when worry or fear did unpleasant things to his insides. Like now, for instance.

It wasn't bad for focusing on the situation at hand when the carbon dioxide was beginning to make him feel light-headed, either.

"C–can't help it."

"'Course you can. I don't know what the hell's in your head, but you have to snap out of it. If anything, we're gonna suffocate in here, not freeze to death!"

Mick's glare was maybe a spark of what it would normally be like if he hadn't been so out of it, but it was still a spark. Always a good sign as far as Heatwave was concerned.

"I've tried! I'm _trying!_ But something in my brain keeps telling me that I'm locked in a freezer – you know I'm … not so fond of these – and … I don't know how the psychology of it works, Len, but fact is, I still …" He shivered violently, and gave a short laugh that wasn't a laugh at all. "Must be more messed-up than I thought."

"Aren't we all," Len remarked cautiously, still staring at him and debating inwardly about whether he should keep trying to talk him out of it or actually start to come up with serious solutions against hypothermia.

After about twenty seconds, he made up his mind.

He took off his parka and wrapped it around his shivering team mate, avoiding the funny look he got in response, which looked remarkably like a carefully-hidden smile.

Had it been anyone else, Len would perhaps have felt compelled to make a snarky comment as a justification, something along the lines of 'If it _was_ that cold, don't think for a second I would have done that' or putting the unusually warm gesture on account of the damage the carbon dioxide was probably doing to their brains. It would have been a lie, he knew, and Mick would have known too – but they'd been working together for so long now and (he supposed) knew each other so well that they didn't even have to bother with justifications and explanations that would have been awkward at best.

Mick didn't venture anything else than a low-voiced, "Thanks."

Len nodded.

And the subject was closed.

The moment wouldn't have been so bad, actually, considering they were both locked up in an air-tight cube with crushing heat and dwindling oxygen. So Mick shaking him into opening eyes he didn't remember closing came as a rather nasty surprise.

"Len – Len!"

"Mm'not … Hey, stop that." Had his head really felt light earlier? Now it felt thirty times its usual weight. Along with the rest of him.

Mick was still watching him intently, his eyes peeking under the shadow of the hood. He didn't look much better than he had earlier. His lips were an even paler shade of blue.

"D'you want your parka back?"

"Smartass."

"Just sayin'."

And then Len didn't see anything, because the light bulb chose this particular moment to flicker and die. Complete and utter darkness took over as though someone had switched off the world itself – rather like what the Shade used to do with his nightstick.

Yet another former member of Grodd's Legion who would never see Central City again. Richard Swift might not have been a Rogue, per se, but he was a good villain – classy, honourable in his own right and dangerously efficient.

Somewhere against his right shoulder he felt Mick distinctively stiffen between two shudders of imaginary cold. The heat was unbearable, the lack of air was making him gape like a fish on dry land, but somehow Len couldn't think of shifting away.

"Great. Just great. And how the hell am I supposed to tell you're still alive now?" Mick's voice came out strangely disembodied in the total dark. Len decided to fight the drowsiness that was dangerously creeping up on him by means of acute sarcasm.

"Take my word for it."

"Now who's a smartass?"

"Aw, shut up." _Wait a minute …_ "Damn. On second thought, don't."

Ten … Eleven endless seconds of silence. When Mick spoke again, his voice was quieter, and despite the fact that the heat and lack of oxygen was slowly but surely turning his brain into mush, Len's inner alarm bells rang full force. Right now, though, he was just too tired to answer them.

"Okay."

"Shouldn't be a problem."

"Speak for yourself."

Len let that pass. He didn't know whether he was too exhausted to react accordingly or whether it just didn't seem that important. For some reason this bothered him a great deal.

_Janet's gonna kill me if I die here._

The thought came unbidden, and completely unexpected, but it cleared away some of the creepy cotton in his head, as he knew it would. His wife was headstrong, stubborn and could be a harpy and a nag if she really put her mind to it – and if he decided to be a bastard, which admittedly happened once in a while – but she was _there_, and she was strong. She was also in his mind's eye, her image clear as day superimposed on the dark, and he clung to it in the privacy of his head. He needed to stay sharp. Focused.

Alive, too.

"Mick?"

_Gotta stay awake. Gotta get Mick to stay awake. Gotta get him to fight._

'_S what a captain does. _Not_ gonna lose another one. No way._

"… Yeah. I'm – I'm good." The alarmingly still shoulder against his shifted a bit. "Thinkin' of a song, of all things."

Thinking. Thinking was good.

"Which one?"

"_Oh Susanna_."

Len nodded, too tired to care that Mick couldn't see him in the dark.

"Good song."

"Yeah."

The thing is, when you're that close to going to sleep knowing you'll probably never wake up, is that you grasp at straws to stay awake, even if it makes you look perfectly ridiculous. And right now, Len preferred being ridiculous and alive to the alternative.

Which explained why a couple of minutes later, both men were singing in a very subdued, tired – and completely off-key – voice.

_I had a dream the other night when everything was still,  
I thought I saw Susanna coming up the hill,  
The red, red rose was in her hand, the tear was in her eye_ …

"No no no no, Len – it's '_The buckwheat cake was in her mouth_', not that thing about a rose …"

"Yeah, well, doesn't rhyme with 'Dixieland', now, does it?"

"I think he comes from the South, then."

"Dixieland _is_ in the South."

"Not the point. 'S not the lyrics I know."

There was a short silence, and Len stared at Mick in the darkness, knowing with absolute certain clarity that he stared back at the exact same second.

He managed a grin.

"After a dozen years, we still can't agree on the details. Sad."

"What'd you expect? Hot and cold. We're about as different as you can get."

"Nah, that's bullshit. We, uh …" It was getting hard to concentrate enough to shape the thoughts into words – words that actually meant something. "Hey, w–we both like to listen to Springsteen every now and then."

"Yeah. And Johnny Cash."

"_Ring of Fire_. Right."

"Ha ha freakin' ha, Len."

_Awake. Stay awake_._ Everything'll be all right if you can both stay awake._

Mick was almost completely still beside him now, except for the low rumbling every time he whispered.

"We're b … both old school."

"Look at us. Yeah. Old school." Keeping his chest rising and falling was painful now, blood thumped inside his ears. Hopefully, the cavalry would arrive before they ran out of conversation _and_ oxygen.

Unfortunately, hope had never been Len's strong suit.

But gritty, hard, hang-by-your-fingernails stubbornness was.

Mick was good at that, too. Otherwise he already would have pointed out the fact that they were both going to die as a common trait. But he wouldn't have been Heatwave if he did.

_Stay awake. Stay … _

"Mick?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did … why did you l–leave Central?"

Dammit. He should have known. Oxygen deprivation plus carbon dioxide multiplied by heat (Fahrenheit degrees) was a deadly equation. It equalled brain damage. _And_ going stupid and soft.

"Really? Truth?"

"Yeah," Len said thickly, too concentrated on getting enough air into his lungs to care what he came across as. "Truth."

Neither of them had the energy – or the time, a nasty little voice whispered at the back of his brain – to tiptoe around a subject and wrap it in careful words and angry looks and awkward silences, anyway.

"Well …"

Mick's voice was barely more than a whisper now, but Len knew a big stupid grin when he heard one.

"Volcana."

Oh. Of course.

"Volcana?"

"Volcana." One word, but his tone said it all.

"Did it work?"

"Not really. Got to work with her, though. God, she was hot."

"I'll bet. Still alive?"

"Yep."

"Good for you, th–then."

"Yeah."

_Awake. Stay awake. Stay … _

"'M tryin', Len. Not easy, though."

"Did … ?"

"… You say that out loud? Yeah." He paused. "Think of … anything else you can … say?"

"What, like last words?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"No." Len scraped together his very last remnants of determination to sound appropriately gruff and certain. "'Cause we're not gonna die. Not here. Not now. Not like that."

Mick suddenly slumped against him. Len's heart stopped.

"Mick, you bastard, don't you dare –"

"Sorry," came an almost inaudible mutter somewhere against his T-shirt. "Jus' … tired. And cold."

"It's boiling."

"I know."

"You got my parka."

"I know."

"… Hang in there."

"You too."

Mick had the last word. Len wondered if he registered how uncharacteristic that was.

_Stay awake._

Breathe in, breathe out. Check that he does the same.

_Stay awake._

Blood rushed in his ears, his whole body ached. He had no idea when he had closed his eyes – it felt like ages ago – but they seemed impossible to open now. Not that it would make any difference.

_Stay awake._

He wondered who would tell Janet. He rather hoped it would be Piper. Kid could break it to her gently, and he knew she'd always had a soft spot for him.

As long as it wasn't Digger.

_Stay awake._

Mick was completely still now. It took a colossal effort, but Len managed to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder and give him the slightest shake.

"Don't. Mick. Please don't."

He felt a shudder and heard a gasp. Good. _Fight_. _Don't die_. Not here. Not now.

_Stay awake._

Sounds drowned in his ears. Everything was completely dark already, and now everything was completely silent.

_Stay awake._

_Stay awake._

_Stay … _

… Damn.

* * *

"Quick! To the Trickstermobile!"

The 'Trickstermobile' was an old Citroen DC – with the particularity of being perhaps the single most uncomfortable contraption known to man – and would probably have been rusting in peace in some junkyard had James not resurrected it. Since he had done unspeakable things to the engine as well, it was currently purring contentedly as they sped through the streets of Central City.

Of course, he had also painted it in the most garish, clashing colours imaginable. The gloriously mismatched combination of yellow, blue, orange and red should have been a 1960s psychedelic nightmare to look at, but it was strangely endearing, in a bizarre, unique way.

Rather like the man himself, Hartley Rathaway reflected.

Then again, derogatory remarks about weird colour and patterns choices would probably be a bit rich coming from a guy who happily sported white polka-dots on green.

Probably. He liked the polka-dots, anyway.

The car seemed to spend more time an inch or two above the ground than on the actual road, due to the speed and the number of potholes – not to mention Trickster's acrobatic driving. But Hartley didn't mind the few bumps and bruises that he was likely to get every time his head hit the roof in spite of the belt.

The growing worry had a lot to do with that.

Despite Trickster's enthusiastic start – complete with car moves that could have been right out of _Starsky and Hutch_ – it was obvious he was concerned as well. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands were clutching the wheel a little too tight.

"A meat locker."

"An out-of-order meat locker, James," Hartley corrected, clinging to the idea. Out-of-order meant the cooler didn't work. On the other hand, this also meant the electric commands didn't either, including the door. But by reassuring Trickster he could also try to reassure himself.

"Still a meat locker. And you said that if they could get out, they'd have done hours ago. Means they're still in there." His hands tightened on the wheel a little more. "Gotta be seriously whacked-out to lock people in a meat locker. These guys are so dead when Digger and Sam find them. I mean, think about it, Piper – it's a giant _fridge!_ Where they store meat! Dead meat!"

"I know," Hartley half-sighed, hanging on for dear life wherever he could while the little car repeatedly jerked his body against the door as though it made it its personal business.

"Plus, locking Heatwave in a fridge? Really not the greatest idea in the history of great ideas."

"An out-of-order one."

"Think it's gonna make any difference for Mick?"

It should. It should make all the difference in the world. But suddenly Hartley wasn't so sure it would.

He was saved from having to reply by a sharp jolt of the car as it pulled abruptly to a stop. His insides lurched. He was beginning to get used to the feeling of his internal organs going through a blender even several minutes after he stumbled out of Trickster's car.

They ran along the half-buried tracks of the old streetcar to the abandoned restaurant – it hadn't rained in a fortnight, and dust was flying everywhere, making the scenery look even bleaker than it might usually – and kicked open the front door in perfect synchronicity. They didn't even have to consult each other with a look.

When they stopped in front of the heavy door – Hartley noted with a fresh surge of anger that it was blocked from the outside – James whipped out a rubber chicken, looking more dangerous than Piper had seen him look in a while. But he shook his head and took out his flute.

"No time. This'll be quicker."

A few notes of _Kick Out The Jams_ did the trick. He focused the vibrations on the hinges; they quickly gave out, and the door fell in their direction with a groan of strained steel.

Piper and Trickster didn't wait for the dust to settle and rushed inside to find the two lifeless figures slumped against one another and get them out in the open.

For some reason, Cold's parka was wrapped around Mick, who even unconscious was still gripping it so tight that Piper had a hard time laying him out flat on the ground. He was deadly pale, and his eyelids and lips were a disturbing shade of blue – probably from the lack of oxygen – but at least Hartley's ultra-sensitive ears could pick up a breathing. The relative relief was confirmed when he took his pulse – it was fast, much too shallow and they would need oxygen if they wanted his heart to keep beating, but it was there.

Len, on the other hand …

"Oh no, you don't," Hartley muttered, seizing a wrist and cursing under his breath when he couldn't feel anything. He placed both hands on his chest and pushed, mumbling as he counted silently. "Armageddon was last month, and you survived that. Missed your chance then, so don't you walk out on us now. Come on."

James appeared at his shoulder, his pale face a stark contrast with the colours of his suit.

"Called an ambulance. How …?"

"Not so good. How's Mick?"

"Not much better."

Hartley failed to come up with a clever comment, and he knew James would not hold that sort of thing against him. He continued to push – _one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and-five_ – not stopping even when he felt something (bone or cartilage, he didn't know) distinctively crack. He winced, but carried on.

First rule of CPR was that you did _not_ stop until help arrived or the guy breathed on his own. So Piper doggedly kept going.

He kept going until his arms hurt, and well after that. He kept going because his throat closed of its own accord as seconds and minutes went by and still nothing happened. He kept going because even though Mark had not been around much lately, and always had been rather aloof on the best of days, his death had still left Piper with a sharp sense that he had just lost _family_, and he'd be damned if he let it happen again so soon.

Maybe there was something sad about realising that you meant more to a bunch of crooks than you did to your own blood relations, and vice versa.

Or maybe the very notion of 'blood' was relative. After all, they'd shed it together more than once. They fought together, laughed together, ate and drank (often a lot) together – they did jobs, shared the spoils, sprang themselves out of jail every now and then.

And Len always seemed to be right in the middle.

Len could be many things. He could be gruff, rough, and thoroughly rude sometimes; he could play the part of the absolute cold-hearted bastard to perfection; he wasn't at all adverse to use violence if it helped his schemes …

But at the heart of all that – if you managed to get to the very centre, which took time and a _lot_ of patience – was an iron core of fierce, determined loyalty to his Rogues. _All_ of them. Even the coarse Aussie who always remained something of a loose cannon. Even the zany (even under medication) former aerialist who delighted in coming up with crazy plans and went around robbing banks with a blowtorch disguised as a rubber chicken.

… Even the former rich kid whom his folks had kicked out when he came out, who used sonic vibrations to mess with people's heads (as seldom as possible, and always felt guilty about it) and still bristled at any form of injustice.

They all carried baggage. Being a Rogue was also about letting the others help you carry it, even if you never said a word or explained what that baggage was.

In Piper's case, when the others had gotten wind of his personal preferences – he hadn't intended for them to find out, since he considered it was a private matter – he had had a few funny glances thrown his way, and Sam or Digger for one had kept a bit of a distance for a while.

He had made it very clear that just because he usually would not use his sonic 'persuasion' powers for ethical reasons did _not_ mean he wouldn't use them if somebody actually crossed the line. Just in case someone was tempted to toe that line. Hartley Rathaway liked to fight his own battles.

Everyone got the message in their own time. It hardly ever came up now, barely even showing through awkward stances and mumbled words. All it took was Piper casually playing a harmless tune on his flute – and the Trickster to smile _the_ smile while playing just as casually with his yo-yo, because he had decided early on nobody that messed with his best friend – to remind people that he was a Rogue, and that any Rogue was to be reckoned with.

Len had never made any remark on the subject – derogatory or not – except to close it the first time it had come up. As far as he was concerned, what Piper did with his free time was his own damn business.

Hartley had not gone to the Rogues for acceptance, but he had gotten it anyway. Much more than he could say about his own parents.

Which was why, six minutes and forty-five seconds later, he was still tenaciously pushing and counting – _twenty-eight-and-twenty-nine-and-thirty-and-one-and-two-and_ – glancing at the blue-tinged eyelids while James made sure Mick was still breathing and caught his eye every now and then, alternating between grim and reassuring. His arms were killing him, and his shoulders were beginning to seriously ache as well.

After six minutes and fifty seconds, though, the eyelids seemed less blue, more pale.

A little past seven minutes, Hartley thought he could see the eyes moving underneath.

"Len, I know you can hear me in there making a right fool of myself, so why don't you save us both the trouble and wake up now?"

He didn't get any reply, so stubbornly continued.

"You and Mick won't get off that easily, you know. Coming that close to snuffing it because some average guys locked you in a fridge? You'll never live that one down." Piper grit his teeth. "But I won't let you not _try_."

Still no sign of life.

"I'm serious, Len. You're too stubborn to quit and you know it."

Only silence answered him. The thought that maybe he'd been performing CPR on a corpse for eight minutes flashed in his mind for half a second, and it felt like someone had skewered him through the stomach and left a burning hole.

But he shook it off. He had to.

"Come on."

It's always rather startling to realise how much you've gotten used to someone being around and watching your back. Especially when it's been that way for six or seven years. Truth was, Piper was still trying to adjust to the idea that Mark would _never_ pay them another surprise visit with news from this or that villain gathering, suggest ideas for a plan and complain that they never used them – which wasn't always the case – or casually offer to make some rain fall when the weather got too dry … Not anymore.

The same applied to any of the still-living Rogues. Life without even _one_ of them just seemed so completely unreal it might as well be from some alternate dimension or another planet.

"Come on."

Especially now. _Now_ they all knew what a death in the family tasted like.

To say it was unpleasant had to be the biggest understatement this side of the known universe.

"Come _on_, dammit."

Rogues looked after their own. And Len looked after his Rogues.

Nothing had ever challenged _that_ so far.

Nothing.

Trickster yelped, abruptly breaking the tension. Piper nearly jumped out of his skin, and glancing beside him saw that Mick had grabbed James' cloak. His hand was the only thing that had moved beside his chest rising and falling slowly and his eyes were barely open – but the expression in what Piper could see of them was startlingly sharp.

"Tricks. Buzzer. Now."

James' eyes went round behind his mask as they met Hartley's. The next second, he was fumbling in his pockets and fishing out the two hand buzzers he usually carried just in case. He set them to maximum power and threw them to Hartley, who caught them deftly and put them down.

The effect was almost immediate. A few seconds later, Len was gasping and wheezing, shaking all over, and his general expression was an interesting mix between wildly disoriented, thoroughly livid and possibly scared somewhere in the middle.

Piper sagged, exhaustion catching up with him at the same time the adrenalin wore off. He allowed himself a small smile – trying not to pay attention to the slight smell of burning skin hanging in the air – and wished he could come up with some ironic comment that would downplay the scare they'd had.

"Holy-cow-Len-don't-ever-do-that-again-you-scared-the-flippin'-snot-outta-us-and-who's-President-and-how-many-fingers-am-I-holdin'-up?"

… Then again, he knew he could always count on James to defuse the tension. His smile became a little bit steadier.

Len blinked blearily, still struggling for breath and looking like he was about to see how his lunch looked like coming back up.

"Mick?" he muttered hoarsely.

"Still here," came the rasping reply.

Something subtle – a blink-and-you-miss it something – passed between the two. It was over in less than a second, but it left Hartley with the sense of status quo being restored. It was oddly reassuring, and it gradually mended the gaping hole in his stomach that hadn't really been there.

All was _not_ all right with the world, but if those two were still there, then it meant it wasn't so bad.

Trickster frowned.

"You didn't answer my question."

The look Len shot him between half-closed – and still a bit blue – eyelids fell definitely short of his usual standards, but it still retained a little bit of the intended deadpan stare. And possibly the slightest hint of a smirk. Possibly.

"Blue. Yellow. … And _orange_."

The grin that answered him was still rather shaky, but Trickster nodded approvingly.

"Okay, then."

It didn't make a lick of sense, but that was all right, too.

Just as they began to hear the cavalry arriving – ambulance sirens wailing and everything – Hartley caught a look from Len. It was just a look, and it was far from the steady, unblinking gaze he had gotten used to, but as looks went, this one was particularly eloquent. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but it was very tempting to interpret it as an acknowledgement, perhaps even a thanking.

Hartley was nothing if not circumspect, especially about other people's body language compared to what they actually said – a result of having gotten things wrong one too many times. Hence his absolute surprise when Len, still staring right into his eyes, said in a quiet voice, "Thanks."

One word – a rough whisper that didn't carry much – but Hartley was more touched than he cared to admit. He tried to dismiss it with a slight shrug and an easy smile.

"Don't mention it. You have Mick to thank for the buzzer idea, too, so –"

"Piper." The tone suggested he really meant 'Shut up'. "_Thanks_."

The Rogues _were_ like a family, and like a family, they often took each other for granted, forgot to warn each other before heists, or just went through day-to-day life leaving some of their members aside, trusting that they would still _be there_ if a hand was needed – which was the case most of the time. Piper wasn't much one for getting plastered at midnight and reminiscing – mostly because he was a fiercely private person, but also because those conversations always seemed to include tales about old flames and former conquests, and he just didn't feel comfortable bringing up his own stories – so he knew he missed a good part of the basic 'male bonding' stuff. It also meant they were more used to opening up with each other than with him.

Having Captain Cold, of all people, say 'thanks' – not caring how 'soft' it made it look – not just wordlessly acknowledging a job well done by the whole line-up, but making it direct and personal –

Now there was a red-letter day.

Hartley silently nodded, returning the stare.

As he and James watched the doors of the ambulance slam and went back to the Trickstermobile (it was uncanny how the ludicrous name stuck), Hartley found himself thinking about Shakespeare. _Henry V_, to be precise, and the famous 'band of brothers' speech.

It didn't actually fit them – not really.

Sure, they had found themselves in tight spots, in 'fight or die' situations – during the Thanagarian invasion, or the more recent debacle, with Parademons flying everywhere – and maybe the amount of blood they'd lost as they fought side by side would have been enough to qualify them for the hopelessly heroic quote.

But it wasn't _everything_. Being a Rogue was also bickering and squabbling over the particulars of a plan over a beer or two; covering each other's backs with a spectacular diversion for the Flash or the cops while everyone ran the other way; playing cards and chatting idly on rainy days …

… And be there if you were needed. For a beer, a heist, the odd small favour, and the occasional life-or-death situation, indiscriminately.

They weren't brothers, but they _were_ family. A chaotic, warped and somewhat messed-up one, but a family all the same.

To put it simply, they were a bunch of Rogues.

FIN!

* * *

_Blood Brothers_ is a great song by Bruce Springsteen … Because it somewhat fitted and I can't get him out of my head whenever I write about the Rogues, go figure out why.

It's uncanny (and kinda great, really) that Ivy's and my fics actually complement each other. She wrote the two of them in a really cold place, I wrote them in a really hot (and air-tight, for good measure) place. She chose Mick's point of view, I chose Len's. She went for the comics, I went for the cartoon (then again, I can't seem to be able to write anything not DCAU-related :P) Without preliminary consultation. Yay :o)

The Citroën 2CV (DC is _Deux Chevaux_, two tax horsepower) is a deceptively wacky-looking French car with actually high-quality engineering – look it up for pictures on Wikipedia, it's worth it :o) My parents used to have one when I was a kid, and for me it's many fond memories that shouldn't really be that fond, considering it wasn't the most … _comfortable_ car :D


End file.
